To the Hilt (33 page)

The plainclothes police car came to transport me to Vernon’s official stamping ground, where I was instantly invited to look through a window into a brightly lit room, and to say if I’d seen any of eight men at any earlier time in my life.

No problem. Numbers one, three, seven and eight.

“They deny they touched you.”

I gave Vernon a glowering come-off-it glare. “You saw them yourself in that garden. You arrested them there.”

“I didn’t see them in the act of committing grievous bodily harm.”

I closed my eyes briefly, took a grip on my pain-driven temper, and said, on a deep breath, “Number three wore boxing gloves and caused the damage you can see in my face. He is left-handed. The others watched. All four assisted in compelling me to lie on that hot grill. All four also attacked me outside my home in Scotland. I don’t know their names, but I do know their faces.”

It had seemed to me on other occasions that the great British police force not only never apologized, but also never saw the need for it: but Inspector Vernon ushered me politely into a bare interview room and offered me coffee, which in his terms came into the category of tender loving care.

“Mrs. Benchmark couldn’t identify them for certain,” he observed.

I asked if he had talked to Sergeant Berrick in Scotland, and to Chief Inspector Reynolds in Leicestershire. They had been off duty, he said.

Bugger weekends.

Could I use a telephone, I asked.

Who did I want to talk to? Long-distance calls were not free.

“A doctor in London,” I said.

I reached, miraculously, Keith Robbiston; alert, in a hurry.

“Could I have a handful of your wipeout pills?” I asked.

“What’s happened?” he said.

“I got bashed again.”

“More thugs?”

“The same ones.”

“Oh . . . As bad as before?”

“Well, actually ... worse.”

“How much worse?”

“Cracked ribs and some burns.”

“
Burns?
”

“Nothing to do with ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ ”

He laughed, and talked to Inspector Vernon, and said my mother would kill him if he failed me, and pills would be motorbiked door to door within two hours.

If nothing else, Keith Robbiston’s speed impressed the Inspector. He went off to telephone outside. When the coffee came, it was in a pot, on a tray.

I sat and waited for unmeasurable time, thinking. When Vernon returned I told him that number seven in the lineup had been wearing what looked like my father’s gold watch, stolen from me in Scotland.

“Also,” I said, “number seven didn’t relish the burning.”

“That won’t excuse him.”

“No ... but if you could make it worth his while, he might tell you what happened to a Norman Quorn.”

The Inspector didn’t say, “Who?” He went quietly away. A uniformed constable brought me a sandwich lunch.

My pills arrived. Things got better.

After another couple of hours Inspector Vernon came into the room, sat down opposite me across the table and told me that the following conversation was not taking place. Positively not. It was his private thanks. Understood?

“OK,” I said.

“First of all, can you identify your father’s gold watch?”

“It has an engraving on the back, ‘Alistair from Vivienne.’ ”

Vernon faintly smiled. In all the time I spent with him it was the nearest he came to showing pleasure.

“Number seven in the lineup may be known as Bernie,” he said. “Bernie, as you saw, is a worried man.” He paused. “Can I totally trust you not to repeat this? Can I rely on you ... ?”

I said dryly, “To the hilt,” which he didn’t understand beyond the simple words, but he took them as I meant them: utterly. “But,” I added, “why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff?”

He spent a moment thinking, then said, “In Britain one isn’t, as you may or may not know, allowed to make bargains with people accused of crimes. One can’t promise a light sentence in return for information. That’s a myth. You can persuade someone unofficially to plead guilty to a lesser charge, like in this case,
actual
bodily harm, rather than grievous bodily harm, GBH, which is a far more serious crime, and can carry a long jail sentence. But some authorities can be perverse, and if they suspect a deal has been struck, they’re perfectly capable of upsetting it. Follow?”

“I follow.”

“Also the business of what is and what isn’t admissible evidence is a minefield.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“If you hadn’t told me to ask Bernie questions about Norman Quorn I wouldn’t have thought of doing it. But Bernie split wide open, and now my superiors here are patting me on the back and thinking of going to the Crown Prosecution Service—who of course decide whether or not a trial should take place—not with a GBH involving you, but with a charge against Oliver Grantchester for manslaughter. The manslaughter of Norman Quom.”

“Hell’s teeth.”

“At this point in such proceedings everyone gets very touchy indeed about who knows what, in order not to jeopardize any useful testimony. It wouldn’t do for you to have heard Bernie’s confession. It could have compromised the case. So I’ll tell you what he said ... but I shouldn’t.”

“You’re safe.”

He nevertheless looked around cautiously, as if listeners had entered unseen.

“Bernie said,” he finally managed, “that they—the four you call the thugs—all go to a gym in London, east of the City, which Oliver Grantchester has been visiting for fitness sessions for the past few years. Grantchester goes on the treadmill, lifts a few weights and so on, but isn’t a boxer.”

“No.”

“So when he wanted a rough job done, he recruited your four thugs. Bernie was willing. The up-front money was good. So was the payoff afterwards, though the job went wrong.”

“Quorn died.”

Vernon nodded.

“Grantchester,” he said, “told them to turn up at his house in the country. He told them the name of the village and said they would know his house because it had Christmas lights all over the driveway, and he would turn them on, even though it would be daylight and not Christmas. Grantchester arrived at his house with an older man, who was Norman Quorn, and he took him through the gate in the fence into the garden. The four thugs tied the man—whose name they didn’t yet know—to the same tree as they tied you, but they didn’t belt him, like you. Grantchester lit the barbecue and told Quorn he would burn him if he didn’t come across with some information.”

Vernon paused, then went on. “Bernie didn’t know what the information was, and still doesn’t. Quorn was shitting himself, Bernie says, and Grantchester waited until the fire was very hot, and then he threw the grill onto the grass, and told Quorn he would lie on it until he told him—Grantchester—what he wanted to know. Quorn told him he would tell him at once, but Grantchester got the four thugs to throw Quorn onto the grill anyway, and hold him there, and although he was screaming and hollering that he would tell, Grantchester wouldn’t let him up, and seemed to be enjoying it, and when he did let him up, Quorn dropped down dead.”

Vernon stopped. I listened in fascinated horror.

“Bemie,” Vernon said, “was near to puking, describing it.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Grantchester was furious. There was this dead body on the ground and he hadn’t found out what he wanted to know. He got Bernie and the others to put Quorn into the trunk of his car in the garage, and in the house he made them put their hands round empty glasses, so that he had all their fingerprints, and he threatened that if they ever spoke of what they’d seen they would be in mortal trouble. Then he paid them and told them to go away, which they did. Bernie doesn’t know what Grantchester did with Quorn’s body.”

After a while I said, “Did you ask Bernie about Scotland?”

Vernon nodded. “Grantchester paid them again to go to your house and beat you up a bit until you gave them something to give to him. He didn’t tell them what it was. He just told them to say, ‘Where is it?’ to you, and you would know what it was. Bernie said you didn’t give them anything, and Grantchester was furious, and told them they should have made sure you were dead before they threw you down the mountain.”

“Well, well,” I said.

“Bernie says he complained that beating up people was one thing, but murder was another, and Grantchester threatened that Bernie would do as he was told, because of his fingerprints.”

“Bernie is simple,” I said.

Vernon nodded. “Just as well, from our point of view. Anyway, the pay was good, so when Grantchester told them to turn up again at his house the day before yesterday, they did.”

“Yes.”

“Grantchester told them that you would be coming, and that they were to tie you to the same tree, like Quorn before, only this time there was no talk of burning.” He paused. “The one with the boxing gloves is known as Jazzo. He thought you got knocked out too soon in Scotland. He told Grantchester you wouldn’t like another dose. He said he wouldn’t knock you out, and he would guarantee you would answer any question you were asked.”

I listened without comment.

“Of course it didn’t turn out that way,” Vernon said. “So Grantchester brought out his barbecue again, because it had worked the first time, and that’s when Bernie’s bottle deserted him, he says.”

“It didn’t stop him sitting on my legs,” I remarked with satire.

“He didn’t mention sitting on your legs.”

“You don’t say.”

“He said Mrs. Benchmark was there, and she was screaming and screaming to Grantchester to stop, and he wouldn’t. I asked Bernie if you were screaming too.”

“That’s an unfair bloody question.”

Vernon gave me a sideways glance. “He said the only noise you made was a sort of moan.”

Charming, I thought.

“And that’s when the bus crashed into the garden.” Vernon paused and looked at me straight. “Is Bernie’s account of things accurate?”

“As far as I’m concerned, yes.”

Vernon stood up and walked around the room twice, as if disturbed.

“Mrs. Benchmark,” he said, “called you her brother; but you’re not, are you?”

“Her father was married to my mother. He died a week ago.”

Vernon nodded. “Mrs. Benchmark is devastated by what happened in the garden. She doesn’t understand it. The poor lady is very upset.”

I again made no comment.

“She said your girlfriend was there. We released all the football supporters yesterday, but half of them agreed that the bus was driven from the pub to the garden by a young woman. Was she your girlfriend?”

I said, “She is a friend. She was walking a few steps behind me when the thugs hustled me into the garden. They didn’t notice her. She told me yesterday that when she saw what was happening she ran down to the pub and called the police. Then, it seems, the busload of happy revelers arrived, so she drove the bus to the rescue, for which I’ll always be grateful.”

“In other words,” Vernon said, “you are not going to get her into trouble.”

“Quite right.”

He gave me a long slow look. “And you’re not going to give us her name and address.”

“She lives with a man,” I said, “who wouldn’t like to see her in court. You don’t really need her, do you?”

“Probably not.”

“If there was any damage to the bus,” I said, “I’ll pay for it.”

Vernon went over to the door, opened it, and shouted to someone outside to bring tea. When he came back he said, “We obtained a warrant yesterday to search Grantchester’s house.”

He waited for me to ask if he’d found anything useful, so I did.

He didn’t answer straightforwardly. He said, “The policeman in Scotland sent us faxes today of the drawings you did of the thugs the day they attacked you at your home. Bernie almost collapsed when we showed them to him. Your policeman also sent the list of things that were stolen from you. In Grantchester’s house we found four paintings of golf courses.”

“You didn’t!”

Vernon nodded. “Your policeman, Sergeant Berrick, said that the pictures had stickers on the backs, and if other stickers had been stuck over them, your name would still be visible under X ray. So this afternoon we X-rayed the stickers.” He almost smiled. “Your Scottish policeman said that you promised to paint a portrait of his wife, if he helped to find your pictures.”

“I did,” I said. “And I will.”

Vernon suggested, “Mine too?”

“A pleasure,” I said.

On Tuesday morning I went to the bank meeting in Reading and was shown into a small private conference room where the area bank manager, Margaret Morden and Tobias were already sitting round a table with coffee cups in front of them.

When I went in, they stood up.

“Don’t,” I said awkwardly. “Am I late?”

“No,” Tobe said.

They all sat. I took the one empty chair.

“Did you bring the list?” the bank man said.

I was wearing an open-necked white shirt with no tie, and carrying a jacket. I dug into a jacket pocket and handed Norman Quorn’s envelope to Tobias.

They were staring at me, rather.

“Sorry about the bruises,” I said, making a gesture towards my face. “I got a bit clobbered again. Very careless.”

Tobias said, “I’ve talked to Chris. He told me about ... Grantchester’s barbecue.”

“Oh.”

Tobias had also, clearly, relayed to the bank man and to Margaret what Chris had said. All of them were embarrassed. I too. Very British.

“Well,” I said, “can we find the money?”

They had no doubt of it. With a relieved air of eagerness and satisfaction they passed to each other the piece of paper, the riddle that Quorn had left; because it soon became apparent that, although the numbers and names belonged to bank accounts, the brewery’s Finance Director had been coy about setting down on paper which account referred to which bank. The list had been an aide-mémoire to himself. He had never meant anyone else to have to decipher it.